


Ars Gratia Artis

by Oriole T (inamac)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: 1980s, Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1983-09-16
Updated: 1983-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/Oriole%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The proceeds of a smuggling raid, and the talent of an artist friend of Doyle's have unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ars Gratia Artis

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story was written in 1983 and contains period dialogue and attitudes (casual racism, sexism, smoking). For further background see endnote.

# Ars Gratia Artis

  


## by Oriole

Hayer's Wharf, at three o' clock on a rainy Sunday morning, was not the Mecca of the Western World; a fact of which the two men sitting on the dockside watching the lights of moored barges bobbing against their watery reflections were only too well aware. Although their eyes never left their close watch on water and wharfside their minds dwelt on higher things.

"So who was that lady I saw you with last night, eh?" Bodie emphasised his query with the dig of a pointed elbow into his partner' s ribs, ignoring Doyle's yelp as he continued: "Didn't think you fancied the voluptuous type."

"I don't." Doyle was abrupt. "I'm just doing her a favour. I've known her for years."

Bodie raised an eyebrow. "In the Biblical sense? With her looks she needs all the favours she can get." He paused, in sudden recollection of one of Doyle's more startling revelations. "Hey, she's not that bird you used to live off, is she?"

The scowled reaction was everything he could have wished for.

"Christ no, If you must know, she used to be one of my art tutors."

"Oh? Thought you said they were all little ravers?"

"_Tutor_, you berk. Did anyone ever tell you you've got a one-track mind?"

"You, sunshine, frequently. And you're wrong. Sometimes I think about birds too." He paused, but Doyle refused to rise to the bait and, with a shrug, he backtracked the conversation. "So okay, what's this favour then?"

Doyle paused, then his head turned and he surveyed his partner thoughtfully. "Y'know, I think she might like to meet you. Why don't you come over this evening? You could do her a favour yourself."

Bodie didn't like that calculating look, but he grinned agreement.

"Tonight, then."

Out on the water a light flashed red. Banter forgotten, Bodie gave his partner's rubber covered shoulder a squeaky squeeze and they both pulled on their masks and plunged into the icy waters of the Thames.

"And furthermore," snapped George Cowley, light glinting from his spectacle frames like snow glare on the barrels of a pair of two-inch mortars, "furthermore, I will not have you wasting C15 time and resources on a wild. goose chase. Clamping down on this trade is a matter for the police - or customs."

Doyle cleared his throat. "Er, it was my informer, sir. And he was sure they were bringing in arms."

"Ammunition," said his boss, picking up one of the flat round cans from his desk to punctuate the diatribe, "which is not military issue, Doyle." He spun abruptly, catching the tail end of one of Bodie's more readable expressions.

"Not in the British Army, laddie. Not officially." He sighed, the blasting out at an end. "Ach, go on, get out. And take this filth with you."

The two agents gathered up the pile of canisters and edged towards the door. Bodie risked a parting shot. "D'you want us to take them to Stores, sir?"

"Take them down to the rest room. I'm given to understand that your colleagues feel that they can put the fruits of your folly to good use."

"Yes, sir."

News of their abortive underwater raid had run like wildfire through the building, and the room currently labelled _VIP Lounge_ was packed to the gunnels when they reached it.

Lucas, the electronics genius of the squad, was ministering to the needs of an ancient cine projector. which might have come out of the ark but had actually been kidnapped from the briefing room. The remainder of the crowd were back-seat driving amid a smoky atmosphere that was more redolent of a Berlin nightclub than a Civil Service rest room.

A cheer rose as the two men entered bearing the pile of cans. When it died Macklin's unmistakable tones rose from one corner.

"Alright, Mac, pay up."

The dark man stubbed out the latest in his chain of cigarettes and fished into his jeans' pocket for a handful of cash, peeling off a couple of notes into the outstretched palm. "Bloody vulture. Might've known the Cow's blue eyed boys could screw those out of him."

"Double or quits?" suggested Macklin, grinning evilly. "Ten to one George'll be down later."

There were no takers. All of the men knew their boss far too well to think that he would resist the chance of 'checking up' on the VIP Lounge at some time in the day. Bodie deposited his burden in Murphy's waiting arms and looked round critically. In spite of McCabe's attempt to produce a personal smog the room was still too brightly lit for the projector to be much use.

"What about the blackout?"

"We'll stand Jax in front of the window."

But somebody had already moved to shift a blackboard embellished with rules which were not in the C15 manual to cover the cracked glass and in the sudden twilight the improvised screen flickered.

"I hope," came a final mutter before the film leader flipped through the gate, "That he's threaded the bloody thing the right way round this time."

"Would you notice?" Murphy grinned. After three years on the Vice Squad he'd become very proficient in dealing with blue movies.

The projector whirred.

The party broke up in what might be best described as 'disorder'. Not so much because their boss had (as predicted) put his head around the door with a curt demand to keep the noise down, or because of the indignant invasion by a group of female C15 officers staging a take-over, but because of the disappointment of the last film.

The women had been left in triumphant possession of the projector and can when their colleagues dispersed. Bodie was still brooding indignantly as he drove his partner back to his flat. He did, however, brighten up when he recognised the blue Mini parked outside the block.

"Your girlfriend's back."

Doyle bridled. "How many times do I have to tell you? She's not..."

"I know, I know. You're just doing her a favour." He leered. "You were going to let me lend a hand, remember?"

Doyle hesitated, and then unlocked the car door. "If you think you're up to it. You'd better come in."

"Now?" The other man looked startled. A half-memory of that last movie tugged at his consciousness - and was banished by the sight of Doyle's open, triumphant grin. So what? Anything the bionic golly could do, he could do better.

"You're on." He switched off the engine and followed his partner up the stairs. Doyle was already inside when he reached the door of the flat. He pushed it open, stepped into the half-lit main room...  
and dropped for cover, spinning out his gun to cover the menacing figure who stood, machine gun cradled ready, amid the shadowy foliage across the room.

Jungle? House plants? What...?

The overhead light snapped on, scattering the shadows, revealing canvas, easel and scattered. paint tubes.

And Doyle. Grinning.

"Temper, temper." He glanced at the gun as Bodie holstered it, then turned to regard the painting critically, legs straddled, hands on hips, almost as if he were facing a mirror.

And he was. The likeness was obvious, although the artist had made alterations; the hair was nearer red than Doyle's tousled brown curls, the eyes carried a green glint from the surrounding foliage, and. shadow pooled dark across too-even features. The scowl, though, and the aggressive stance, were pure Doyle.

"Narcissus."

Bodie's accusation was drowned by an urgent shriek from the kitchen.

"Don't touch it!"

Both men jumped and Doyle turned as the door swung open to reveal the author of the piercing yell. She was a dumpy middle-aged woman, clad n a paint-bespattered overall and she was carrying a tray laden with full coffee mugs. Her voice dropped a couple of octaves when she spoke again.

"Sorry, but it's still a bit wet." She looked across at Bodie. "I don't usually shout at people - especially when I've not been introduced." She offered her hand. "I'm Renata Shore. Call me Rena."

"Bodie." He squeezed the hand and indicated the picture with a tilt of his head. "You the artist?"

"Yes. It's not Ray's style." She grimaced. "It's not mine, either, but it pays the rent."

Bodie inspected the painting critically. "Never thought anyone'd pay good money for a picture of Ray." He was watching his partner from the tail of his eye, but the insult did not prompt reaction.

"S not meant to be a proper portrait anyway. Rena's a commercial artist. That's for a book cover."

"Oh? Horror stories, is it?"

The woman settled herself into a chair and cupped. hands around her coffee mug. "It's a for a pulp novel called 'Jungle Raiders'. Judging from the blurb it's pretty appalling but I've been commissioned to do six covers for the series and that's number four."

"And Ray' s been modelling for you?" Bodie was fascinated by this glimpse into the world of art.

"He's been an angel. It's difficult enough getting models at the best of times, but finding a man who strips as well as Ray. . ." She broke off to sip her drink. "Sorry. You got me on my hobby horse. Ray, if you've got plans for tonight I can pack up now. That 'should be dry enough to shift soon."

Doyle glanced briefly at his partner, then met Rena's eyes. "I thought you might like to make a start on the next one."

"Yes, but I told you Ray, I need someone a bit more …brutal looking…" She broke off, her mind racing ahead of her words. Doyle was grinning.

"That's why I invited Bodie over. He said he'd like to do you a favour."

Bodie had been half expecting the bombshell. What he had not anticipated was the artist's reaction. She put down her mug, half turned in her seat, and the cool blue eyes mentally stripped him. She frowned.

"Hmm. You' re right Ray. He' s got the build I need for the gypsy thing. The back's right, but it would really take a sculptor to do him justice..."

"Enry Moore," Doyle agreed, "Bodie'd look good full of 'oles."

"Enough people have tried, sunshine." It was a belligerent growl, a cover for his surprise. This was not the sort of favour which he'd envisioned doing for the woman during his earlier conversation with Doyle, but he could not back out on the offer now. And it might, after all, be interesting.

The artist continued her scrutiny, getting to her feet to move round him.

"I would like to do some sketches - if you're sure you don't mind?"

"He doesn't." Doyle did not bother to hide his amusement. Having put the skids under his partner he was more than willing to give him a hefty shove.

Bodie took it. "What sort of pose did you have in mind?" he asked, deliberately striking an heroic posture, one fist raised towards the heaven in majestic fury - an effect totally spoilt by a cynically raised eyebrow. The woman laughed and. settled herself back down on the chair, a sketchpad on her lap and pencil poised.

"No," she said, as she made deft lines on the paper, "don't pose just move naturally. I'll tell you when I'd like you to freeze."

Doyle handed him the discarded coffee mug.

"Drink that, before _it_ freezes."

With the ice broken they sat talking companionably for almost an hour; a three- sided conversation of mutual anecdotes which flowed over the scratch of the artist's pencil and the occasional rustle of discarded paper. It was only when the discussion lulled that Doyle leaned across to take a look at the results. Bodie relaxed out of his latest pose.

"Has she got my good side?"

"Oh, I think so." With barely concealed. glee Doyle passed over one sheet of paper. It was a rough sketch, barely outlined, of the send-up pose - outstretched arm, shoulder, the twist of torso, and fabric stretched tight over buttocks and thighs. Bodie's eyes flickered over it and met those of the artist.

"Hope you weren't thinking of using this for your book cover."

"Probably wouldn't sell," observed Doyle.

The woman smiled and reached out to take the sketch. "I couldn't waste that pose, could I? It's not what I was thinking of though." Again she favoured him with that disconcerting stare. "I was right, you have got a good. back. Would you mind taking your shirt off? I'd like to do some semi-nude studies."

"Flattery," said Bodie, as he unbuttoned the garment, "could get you into trouble."

Doyle, surprised by Bodie's submission to the request - although he knew from experience that Rena could be very persuasive - covered his amusement by gathering up the coffee mugs. He was forestalled by Rena's sharp command.

"Hang on a minute Ray."

"Oh?"

"I need another body."

The comment left both men speechless and Bodie's retort was silenced by the woman's introspective murmur. "Actually, it needs a girl. I'll have to call Michelle later, but in the meantime Ray can stand in."

Bodie choked. "What sort of novel is this, anyway?"

Still bent over her pad. the artist did, not look up. "It's a thing called _Wanton Gypsy_. One of those pseudo-18th Century bodice-rippers full of appalling lines like _he hugged her to his manly bosom_." She glanced up and caught an expression coz equally of vast amusement and embarrassed horror on both faces. She blinked. "You don't have to, but I only need your back and that line of shoulder, and the grip on the girl."

Bodie was allowed no further time for protest as his partner literally took the situation into his own hands. He was gripped, turned, and. pulled into an embrace, feeling rather than seeing Doyle's grin against his shoulder as he spoke across it to the artist.

"Like this, Rena?"

"Fine." The pencil scratched.

The promised half-hour crept by - time passed in snatches of conversation; light hearted discussion of the book, broken occasionally by the artist's request for a change of pose. It was Bodie who was the first to protest.

"How much longer? 'M getting cold."

"With Gypsy Rose to warm you?" Doyle grinned, shaking back his curls in imitation of the glorious jet cascade of the heroine's hair with which Rena's pencil had endowed his image on the pad.

"Gypsy Rose," Bodie pointed out, "is wearing twenty yards of petticoats and a velvet bodice." His eyes narrowed mischievously. "It suits you, Ray."

Doyle did not rise to that bait, he had long since become inured to Bodie's sense of humour, but he did. have a solution.

"Maybe Gypsy Rose should try warming Sir William?" he observed, wrapping his arms around the back of his partner's neck and pulling him down into a parody of a torrid embrace. He intended no more than a fleeting impression of passion, his laughter at Bodie's embarrassment was already welling at the back of his throat, stinging his eyes. Then Rena's whiplash command froze the instant.

"Don't move!"

Doyle felt Bodie's fingers tighten on his ribs, the tensing of neck muscles as he tried to move away, and in that moment the artist in Ray Doyle took command of. his temper. Nothing matters. In any business, if you get the results you want it doesn't matter how. If it means substituting a healthy child for the baby of a junkie mother; smashing a piece of fine china in a Greek restaurant, helping despised white bigots to terrorise an innocent black family - that was _his_ business.

And Rena needed results.

His grip tightened. The fingers splayed in the dark hair clamped his partner's head in place, and he stopped the outraged comment, the words that would have broken mood and pose, with his lips.

"Good." It was a satisfied comment. The artist was working rapidly, the pencil outlining all she could see of back and shoulder and half-turned heads.

The work, in sketch form, spoke eloquently of a savage, animal passion.

They heard the snap of paper as she flicked over the pad, heard it through a haze of confusion - and Bodie moved to free himself, using what movement he was allowed by the embrace to slide his hand down over Doyle's thigh, to push their too-close bodies apart.

The movement was never completed. Doyle's gasp of surprise was stifled by the kiss. If anything he moved closer. And Rena, too, moved.

"For Chrissake will you two stop wriggling? Bodie, can you shift that left hand up a bit further - under the girl's skirts. You're supposed to be raping her."

Choking laughter broke the kiss. Doyle moved his head to look over Bodie's shoulder and met Rena's eyes.

"You sure you don't want to phone Michelle? Bodie won't object."

The artist grinned. "I bet. But she's busy tonight, or I would have. She's a damn sight better model than you are. And she'll pose nude."

"Not with 'im she wouldn't." Doyle released his partner, tension ebbing away. This was just a joke. "Unless you want a chance to draw real rape?"

"Oh," Bodie's brows rose mischievously, "I can do that with Ray. C'mere."

And Ray Doyle suddenly found himself flat on the floor, pinned beneath his partner's weight, with the touch of teeth at his throat and a more than proprietorial hand clasped around his buttocks.

"Bodie!"

This time the artist did not ask them to 'freeze', but her pencil moved like lightning and. by the time that Doyle had wrestled himself free she was putting the finishing touches to a sketch which would have given George Cowley heart failure.

Bodie crossed the room and leaned over her shoulder. He was still breathing hard from exertion, but his breath caught momentarily when he saw the sketch.

"Bloody hell!"

With a few bold lines and roughly hatched shading she had obtained not only the feel of naked eroticism but also a highly recognisable likeness. Doyle too gave a low, and. not altogether approving whistle.

"You're not flogging that to your publisher."

"They wouldn't take it, mate. There's no market."

Doyle looked at him dubiously, his mind flicking back to the afternoon, and the content of the last of those films. No market? Murph could've told him all about the market for that sort of thing - in spades.

The woman closed the sketch book. "No. That one's strictly for private circulation." She smiled, a secretive look which neither man dared to interpret, then she rose to her feet, tucking the pad under her arm. "Think I'd better call it a day. That oil should be okay to cover now. And I've imposed on your hospitality for long enough, Ray."

"You're welcome to supper." It was an automatic response. He was aware, from the corner of his eye, of Bodie bending to pick up his discarded shirt, of the play of light and shade across muscled flesh, and the thought nagged like toothache. Wish I could paint figures. And another thought, one that broke across René's protesting preparations to leave.

"That last sketch - can I have it?"

The atmosphere of the room seemed momentarily charged as Bodie straightened and looked across at him. Then Rena drawled a reluctant "Weeell... I suppose Bodie's right. I don't really have a use for it."

"Wouldn't 'ave thought Ray did."

Doyle gave a not altogether convincing grin. "There's always blackmail."

"That cuts both ways." Bodie took the proffered sheet of paper, dropping it with studied casualness face down on the coffee table. Rena picked up her coat.

"You have been angels. I owe you something anyway. I'll let you have a copy of the cover when it's finished."

"Just make sure it's the version with Michelle, eh?" Bodie's arm around the woman's shoulder ushered her to the door.

The artist was not one to dwell on the formalities of farewells and. it was only minutes later that they returned to the sitting room. Doyle crossed to the drinks cabinet as his partner sprawled comfortably on the sofa.

"Scotch?"

"Yeah."

It was distraction. His eyes were drawn to the square of white paper on the table. He was aware that Doyle's interest was centred on the same thing. The tension in the room was tight-rope taut . One word, one action, could snap it either way. Bodie took a breath. Even Blondin had had to steel himself for the first step.

"Ray, why did you do that?"

Doyle's gaze slid away. Ice clinked as he busied himself with the drinks.

"Ask for that sketch? Dunno. Didn't want anyone else to see it. Think what it'd do to our reputations if Mac got his hands on that."

Bodie nodded. "You'd better destroy it then. Best thing."

"No!" Sharp. Explosive, And. their eyes met.

_He kissed me._ The thought hammered through Bodie's a brain in heart-beat rhythm. It would not be silenced. For a moment he dragged his eyes away and. bent to pick up the paper, to turn it over.

_He kissed me._ All the evidence he needed was encapsulated in pencil, and an erotic sensation that seemed to burn up from the paper through his fingertips. He jumped as Doyle's fingers closed around his wrist.

"And that. Do you have an explanation?"

Doyle shrugged. "Felt like it. Had to stop you moving somehow."

"Not like that. I should've killed you."

"You didn't." It was thoughtful, not the dismissive snap that Bodie had half expected. He nodded.

"No. I didn't."

The atmosphere in the room was no longer charged. It waited. Doyle released his grip on his partner's arm, turned away.

"D'you want that drink now?"

"I'd rather have you." Mentally Bodie's fingers were crossed. _God, I hope I've read the signs right. If not..._

"Really?" It could have dripped sarcasm. It could. have been the explosive precursor of Doyle's violent temper. But instead, the word was no more than a question, and the hope inside him slipped its shackles, fought every vestige of control, knotted his guts and curdled in his groin, mute answer to Doyle's questioning gaze.

"Oh, really?" The repetition was breathless. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"I'm not… sure." The last word was buried in the touch of lips as Doyle caught his head between his hands and tilted his face down, opening moist lips against his cool forehead. Bodie reached out to rest his own hands on the other man's hips, feeling the bones sharp beneath the denim, the tensing of muscle as Doyle rose into the embrace, asking for closer contact. That demand was all too easy to respond to. He might be out of practice, but his movements as he unfastened. belt and jeans, shifting his touch from fabric to flesh, were purposeful. Doyle himself had wasted no time. His eyes were closed as he kissed his way down his partner's nose, but he had. no trouble in finding exactly what he wanted.

Bodie's shirt was still unfastened, and he slipped it off easily, splaying fingers across the flat-planed shoulder-blades, feeling with every sense the texture which only his eyes had. been able to devour earlier. Fired by image and memory he dragged his partner back down to the floor, kicking himself free of his own clothes as he continued to unfasten Bodie's.

_We' re not going to make it,_ thought Bodie as firm fingers groped from thigh to groin and, in both confirmation and denial of the prediction, he gasped out his climax, rearing against restraint.

"Shit " Doyle snorted in disgust and finished stripping the other man more out of reflex than desire. "Do you always come that bloody fast?"

Bodie gasped; an open-mouthed reaching for air that was an aftermath of passionate reaction. "Only...only with you, sunshine."

The grin was met with a scowl.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea." Doyle shifted uncomfortably.

Bodie looked at him critically for a moment and then moved. swiftly, turning the other man onto his back and pinning his legs beneath an outflung arm. "I think," he said, sliding a hand smoothly over one thigh, "I'm going to have to help you catch up."

"Bastard." It was all that Doyle had breath for before the searching fingers found. their target, urged the flushed cock to slide into his palm, tip and length waiting for stimulation. The oath became a gasp of surprise as Bodie bent his head, touched tongue to what he held, cunt-slick saliva mixing with pearled come.

Too fast, he'd said, but this wasn't nearly fast enough. Doyle moved his head on the carpet, fists clenched, all thought centred on his groin, on the images felt behind closed eyes, lips that enfolded and released, the frisson of fear as he moved against teeth, fear and arousal, blood stirring to carmine incandescence, balls drawing up, muscles ready to drive into that willing warmth.

But the first thrust was tentative, more enquiry than abandonment, and the mouth moved with him, moved away, the action curbing his arousal. He swore in protest.

"No!"

And a tongue dipped into his ear, breath moved on his throat. "Thought you wanted it slower," Bodie murmured, his own voice shaking, "wanted me..." His hand moved to cup Doyle again and slim hips rose from the floor, grinding into the touch. "Do you?"

Silence enwrapped them. _I rather have you._ The words had been spoken an aeon ago, and Doyle had not really believed it then. Now... "You asked for it, Bodie."

He surged upward, against no resistance, felt his partner slide away from him and gripped the hard muscled upper arms in a clutch of bruising desperation. He could. feel his own arousal hard against the prickle of pubic hair, the passion pent only by fear. Even then he might have withdrawn, let the madness die its own death, but Bodie's body glided into his arms, the cleft of his sweat-sticky spine channelled against his chest, a line of desire traced out for him from neck-nape to anus. He followed it with fingers, was halted by his own trapped maleness, by the dimpled dip into which he fitted, weapon and sheath.

And the desire was still rising, a flood-tide of need. His eyes flickered, willing darkness as he ground, and felt, and thrust, and was sheathed, hot and hard the doubled pain of entering and. entered forcing a cry from twinned throats, and then silence, stillness as both accepted, relaxed, cushioned comfortingly close, and climax became unimportant, an event cocooned in the future.

"You going to get on with it?"

The enquiry was curious, no more, but it was enough to make Doyle tense, realisation of what he was doing thrilling along nerve ends. At that Bodie did not wait for reply. He shifted to reach back, broad fingers splayed to clasp around hi partner's buttocks, holding them fused as he moved, very carefully, to hook his ankles behind the other man's knees, rolling and rising slightly to his own as he did so. The position was one that only a superb athlete could have achieved, still less maintained. Doyle, reaching round him for support, felt the other man rear back suddenly and he found their whole weight thrown onto his half-folded forearms - and his cock was the fulcrum of the universe.

He got on with it.

"Where.. ?" It was a gasp of fulfilment, almost of triumph over the fact that they had been able to disentangle their replete bodies without doing any serious injury. "Where did you learn that?"

Bodie thoughtfully ran the circle of his forefinger and thumb the length of his partner's flacid organ. It was not an attempt to arouse, merely an absent-minded. fiddling. Doyle winced, and Bodie desisted, meeting his eyes in answer to the largely rhetorical question.

"Sorry. Habit. Fezul used to like it."

"He probably wasn't as sensitive as me. But I meant the callisthenics. Did. he think that up?"

"Yeah. He didn't weigh as much as you either." Blue eyes met green "An' it wasn't half as good."

"Likewise." Doyle rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand resting caressingly over the curve of the other man's waist. He felt the flutter of muscle, the gathering hardness. His own nerves tensed. "Sorry. I've had it all my own way, haven't I? D'you want to..."

The dark gaze flickered. "That's not my scene, Ray. I prefer women. They're built for it."

"I _will_ have to introduce you to Michelle." His fingers moved down to damp, prickly hair, rubbing gently. The giggly aftermath of sex was dissipating but he felt that they had to talk, to work out what had happened, how it would affect their relationship — if they still had one.

"I can't cope with women," Doyle said reflectively. "Too much like hard work. And it isn't sharing."

"Always knew you were an impatient little sod." Lips moved over his shoulder as Doyle's touch became more intimate. "You have to work at any relationship. It's give and take."

"Like us? It's taken us a long time."

"Yeah. Well, you know I don't like one night stands." It was said in a breath that stirred his curls, sent a camel-train of goosebumps down his spine.

"I've never tried before."

"Not even with Ann?" Bodie could have bitten his tongue, knowing that the comment was born out of an old jealousy. But Doyle did not react with anger, they were both too comfortable for that.

"Ann...I thought she was different. She responded. Oh hell, she was probably faking it. They all do, don't they? And she was the type. Liked being… _involved_. I thought maybe if I married her I wouldn't need men. I could just be - normal."

"Thank God. you didn't." Bodie kissed him and settled into the curve of his throat, feeling the burr of speech through his nerve ends.

"I think my subconscious was looking for a way out. And I wanted to blame you."

"Yeah, And. I asked for it. Your friendly neighbourhood scapegoat. If I'd known what you really wanted I would've taken you to bed instead of the nearest pub. Speaking of which, y'do have a bed y'know."

"I know."

Against their wills they managed to struggle to their feet, using the opportunity for contact in supporting each other across the room. The door closed on darkness save for the wedge of light cast by the table lamp across abandoned coffee cups, fruit-bowl, and a single sheet of drawing paper.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This was originally circulated as the first of four hatstands, two by Oriole T and two by EPS, printed for the UK paper Circuit by Green Dragon Press (UK) under the generic title of _Nemo Repente Fuit Turpissimus_, commonly known as "The Latin Hatstands" in September 1983.
> 
> The original publication included the disclaimer: "These stories are published on the understanding that they are for private circulation only and should not be reproduced, distributed or circulated without the express permission of the authors. If no longer required they must be returned to source."
> 
> On the (admittedly unlikely) assumption that those wishes were fully adhered to, this is the first open/international publication of this story. Please remember that (like its author) it is now very old and fragile and should be treated gently.
> 
> Oriole (2010)


End file.
